Christmas in July
by stress
Summary: "A ghost story and some magic," Specs mused, "not too bad of a barter for my old glasses."  Written for Rags and the NML Secret Santa.  Merry Christmas!


**Disclaimer**: Most of the characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.:

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**Christmas in July**

* * *

It all happened before he knew it.

He was standing on the corner of Franklin and Orange, hawking his headlines, hoping to make enough to pay his lodging fare, get in on a game of dice Race was holding and maybe, if he could twist the morning news into something a little more interesting, end up with enough to buy supper and a cold drink over at Tibby's instead of eating the slop down at the lodging house.

It wasn't going too bad, either. Specs had taken a leaf out of Jack Kelly's book and was improving the truth because, as every good newsie knew: headlines don't sell papes, _newsies_ sell papes. He had a pocketful of pennies and if the evening edition's sales were anything like this morning's, he'd have enough to be ahead come tomorrow.

And that's when it happened.

He didn't actually see the guy that did it to him. He was perched on the corner, the few papers he had left tucked between his feet, and he didn't know that the kid was running until he ran right into Specs. Specs was a tall and gangly sort of fella, all arms and legs and bits and pieces sticking out all over and even if he saw the kid running, he might not have been able to move out of the way in time. And he didn't. With a thump, he was knocked over and _then _he saw stars when another kid came running up after the first one and ran straight over Specs' back.

Actually, that's not entirely true. He didn't see stars but he certainly would have if it wasn't for the fact that the fall had knocked his glasses clean off of his nose.

He didn't remember how he knew he needed glasses. It wasn't like he was born blind or woke up one morning and couldn't see, but he remembered when his mother gave him his specs—his specs and a built-in nickname when he fell into being a newsie not-too-many years later. The nuns came up with them, a Christmas gift one year, a lucky donation, and even if he didn't need them then, he sure as anything needed them now.

Maybe he got too used to him over the years because, the second they were gone, Specs couldn't see much at all. There were wooly shapes, fuzzy clouds, splotches of colors and squiggles of bright lights dotting along his line of vision. That was it. It was like he was blind and, as he pulled himself up to his knees—ignoring the twinge in his back—he used the flat of his palm to pat the ground, searching for his glasses.

Where were the damn things?

"Specs?"

At the sound of his name, Specs squinted up. He could make out a bit of dark-brown hair, and some white, and a purply-reddish color down closer where he was that really stuck out. He just managed to resist the urge to reach up and feel her face, reaching out like some blind Bowery bum, relying instead on his sense of hearing. He knew that voice, and besides, who else had a faded, patched burgundy skirt like that?

"Rags? That you?"

"Yes, it's me," Rags said, confusion lacing each of the words. "I heard a little commotion up here and came to look, but… um… what are you doing in the dirt?"

He gestured airily at his empty face; as far as he was concerned, he wasn't himself without his glasses. "I'm lookin' for me specs. Say, you don't see 'em, do ya?"

"I don't… sorry, Specs, they're not here."

Specs cursed under his breath, then remembered that he was in the presence of a girl—even if it was a street girl like Rags—and mumbled his apologies before muttering out loud, "They couldn't have gone far. I just had 'em… I mean, what am I gonna do without 'em? I can't see nothin' without me specs."

"I could help you," Rags offered up, a hint of rosy pink coloring her dark Italian skin. "I've nothing to do right now, I could be your eyes if you like."

Specs didn't know what to say. On the one hand, he had his pride, but on the other… well, he didn't have his glasses. And Rags just so happened to pass on by… "Ya sure? I could use some help."

"Here," she said, sticking her hand out, "take my hand. I'll make sure you don't trip or stumble. You can count on me."

Specs could kind of see where her hand was, but when his fingers closed on air, Rags reached out and grabbed his hand tightly, helping Specs back up to his feet. Her hand was warm, he noticed, if just a little sweaty.

Or maybe it was his.

"Where would you like to go?"

Specs thought about it. He thought about the last few papers he didn't sell and how he couldn't read anymore of the headlines anyway. He thought about the fair share of pennies in his pocket and how far that would get him that night, and the answer to that was far enough. Then he thought of how it would look to have him bumbling his way back to the lodging house, or worse: led back because, after years of living on these streets, he couldn't see a foot in front of him without his glasses.

He made up his mind.

"As far away from Duane Street as we can get."

* * *

It wasn't so bad, walking with Rags. Since everything was a blur anyway, he couldn't see the looks various passersby were giving him for walking out with a young lady so early in the afternoon, and Rags was good company. She didn't talk that much at first, but she opened up after a few awkward blocks, describing under her breath all the people they passed while making sure he didn't walk straight into any of them.

They walked for awhile, and Specs was just beginning to really feel the summer sun, wishing that he'd mentioned a cheap diner or a place to get a sip when Rags suddenly paused. She pressed her thumb lightly against his palm and Specs stopped, too. He squinted, rubbed his eyes and willed the damn things to work and, with a jolt, he knew exactly where she had led them.

Only one place in the whole city had this much green.

"Central Park?"

Rags nodded, then remembered Specs probably couldn't distinguish the bob of her head from the brown bark of the trees behind her. "Oh, yes. You see, I come here to read."

"Read?" Specs echoes, intrigued. The only thing he ever read was the headlines in the papes. "Whatcha read? Anything good?"

"I actually brought one of my favorite books with me," she answered shyly, patting the front of her skirt. It made a strangle, muffled hollow sound.

"What is it?"

Rags pulled an old, slim book from the large pocket in the front of her tattered skirt, pausing to run her free hand over the lettering. What had been gold once had curled up by the time Rags picked her copy out of the trash, but she could still read the embossed title clearly. Flipping it open, she turned to one of the early pages and underlined one elaborately-typed sentence with a single callused fingertip: _A Ghost Story of Christmas_. "It's a… it's a ghost story," she said simply, not wanting to explain why she was reading a Christmas tale in summer. Besides, she didn't think she'd like it if he laughed at her.

That actually seemed to brighten Specs up. "A ghost story, really? Sounds pretty good to me… but," he added, looking around wildly as if searching for the source of such noise. There were too many people running around the park, shouting and screaming and he could even make out a familiar hawking of the headlines out there, "how can you read here? It's so loud, I can hardly hear myself think."

Rags shrugged, even though Specs couldn't really make out that motion either. "I guess when I go inside a good book it just takes me away for awhile. It's almost like I ain't even here anymore. I hear nothing then. I hear nothing now. At least, nothing you hear."

"Oh, yeah?" he asked, interested. "Where are ya then? What do ya hear?"

"You mean where are _we_," corrected Rags hesitantly, with a soft, uncertain laugh. It was nice being with Specs and, under the shade of her favorite tree in the park, she felt bolder than normal—which still wasn't very much at all, but it was enough to entice her to continue with her fantasies. "I've brought you with me into my world, don't you see?"

Immediately she knew that was the wrong thing to say.

"No," he said gruffly, automatically reaching an ink-stained hand up to where his glasses were normally perched, "I _can't _see."

With his eyes out of commission, Specs' ears were working overtime and, sensitive as they suddenly were, they picked up the sound of a sharp intake of breath close by and, figuring it rightly to be Rags, he looked in the direction where he thought the dark splotch of hair meant she was standing. He reached out a questioning arm, Rags hesitated for a second before moving close enough for his little finger to brush her shoulder and Specs closed his eyes and smiled.

"Tell me about this place," he said, kinder this time.

Rags glanced down at the jolly illustration opposite of the title page. It showed two rather hefty people, a man and a woman dancing gaily in ritzy clothes, moving rightfully beneath a sprig of mistletoe. She smiled to herself, getting into the spirit only the way a good Dickens' tale could do. "First off, it's snowing. Don't you feel the chill?"

Now, even without his specs, Specs knew damn well by the sweat welling up under his arms that it wasn't snowing, but he played along. He made a great display of shivering, grinning as he did so.

"It's snowing here, and there's cooked goose and fresh peppermint wafting in the wind. Mmm… it smells delicious. So festive," Rags added, images of ornament-covered Christmas trees and bow-covered gas lamps flickering through her head, "so cheery. I can hear the carolers, can't you?"

All Specs heard was Mush on the edge of Central Park shouting out his headlines amid the hum and shouts of New Yorkers going about their business, but he had a good idea where Rags was going with this and he didn't want to disappoint her. Not after the way she came to his rescue earlier. "It's Christmas."

"It's Christmas in _London_," she corrected. "We've left New York. That's the power of books, you know."

"A ghost story and some magic," Specs mused, "not too bad of a barter for my old glasses."

Rags busied herself in opening the book to the first page marked as the first stave. Her dark eyes were glued to the faded print. "Would you… maybe I could read this to you since… um, since your glasses are gone?"

The prospect of hearing a ghost story—even one that seemed to have everything to do with Christmas and nothing to do with the swelter and stink of a New York summer—very nearly made Specs forget his bitterness at losing his glasses. Rags had a pretty voice, all soft and light and melodic, and there was something in the way she asked him that made him unable to say no. Using his hand to feel the tree behind him, he folded his legs beneath him. "I ain't got anything better to do," he pointed out, patting the patch of grass beside him, "and if you wanna…"

"I don't mind," Rags cut in hurriedly, momentarily closing her book and tucking her skirt under her as she joined him on the ground. It was cool under the shade, and pleasant, and if she imagined it just right, she could feel the snowflakes settling gently on her shoulder. She sighed softly and opened the book up again, leafing back to the first page.

"'Stave One'," she read, a faint touch of her fading Italian accent finding its way to her voice as she started, "'Marley's Ghost. Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that…'"

* * *

"'…and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One! The end.'"

The book closed with a final sort of muffled slap and, suddenly, the spell she cast was broken. Snow melted as Specs remembered it was ninety degrees out and sweltering; his stomach ached for a stuffed goose with all the trimmings that the Cratchits had sat down to, lucky mooks. He wished it was December, Christmas, but it was stuffy old July again.

Damn.

Rags' voice was raw and hoarse by then, after reading out loud for—how long had it been? Hours? It was certainly cooler than it had been, though maybe that was the shade from the tree the two of them were sitting up against. The sun wasn't anywhere near as high as it had been.

Where had the time gone?

Rags, it seemed, had the same idea as Specs. Swallowing while she closed her dog-eared old book and clasped it to her chest, she glanced around and noticed how late it had gotten. Dickens' novella wasn't very long but she'd whiled away the whole afternoon, reading it to Specs. Not that she minded but…

She stood up suddenly, and Specs had a flash of burgundy before him as her skirt rose to be at the level of his tired eyes.

"We should… um… we should be getting back."

Specs couldn't tell how late it had gotten, but it had to be bad going by the way Rags was acting now. "Oh… right. Yeah. But I—"

"Take my hand again," Rags said, leaning over to help him stand; her cheeks went even redder this time. "I'll lead you back to Duane Street now, if you want."

One part of Specs wanted to argue. Like he'd thought before, the last thing he needed was for the fellas down at the lodging house to see him walking around blind, being led like a stray pup downtown. Then again, since it was a girl like Rags—who, despite her tattered clothes and strange habit of reading her afternoons away, was far better by half than those hoity toity rich dames you get on Fifth Avenue—who was doing the leading… he stuck out his hand and hoped it was Rags who took it.

Besides, despite her quiet voice and her insecurities, something told Specs there was just no arguing with Rags when her mind was set.

The trip from Central Park back downtown towards Duane Street seemed to go a lot quicker, though that might've been because one part of him was dreading the return (and another was a little sorry to see Rags go). He couldn't tell if they went back the way they came since the coming darkness was making his blurry vision even worse, but the path seemed a little different. More direct, maybe.

Rags didn't talk much at all as she helped him navigate the streets. A heaviness had settled over her, weighing her down, her dark eyes cloudy as she thought to herself. Then, when she could see the far off Newsboys' Lodging House sign in the distance, she nodded once as if coming to a decision.

Without taking her hand back from his, Rags pulled a battered pair of glasses out of her pocket, a guilty expression flashing across her face that, luckily for her, Specs still couldn't see. Then, swooping down quickly and placing the glasses under a scrap of paper lying conveniently to the side, she straightened up and stopped Specs by pressing his hand lightly.

Like before, he stopped immediately. "What is it? Are we back?"

"I… I just caught a glint of something off the flame," she invented, gesturing behind her to the flickering flame inside the kept gas lamp marking the end of the street. "Let me look… it was under this paper here… oh, my, Specs, your specs!"

"_What_?"

Slipping her hand out of his in case he could feel hers sweating now, she hurriedly pressed his glasses into his open hand. His fingers felt the familiar nicks in the lenses, the way one of the ear-hooks was bent just enough that they never slid down his nose… Specs groped at them blindly, opening them up and fitting them back in place.

He blinked once or twice, relief washing over him as he could finally see again—

"Wait…" he said, realization dawning as he looked around him and noticed something strange, "hold on, this is Broadway, ain't it? Wasn't I—"

Rags swallowed as nonchalantly as she could. "Hm?"

Specs turned to look behind him where she was standing now, turned to meet Rags' eye to eye.

"I mean," he began, the words spilling it out before he could rein them in, "didn't you meet me over on Franklin when I lost my specs?"

Rags couldn't have looked any guiltier if she stuck her hands in the front pockets of her patched skirt and started to whistle. Instead, pulling her beat up dime store novel out of her pocket, she started to thumb absently through the pages, finding solace in the typeset words, refusing to glance back up at Specs.

"I don't know," she mumbled, her slight Italian accent more noticeable as the words slurred together a touch nervously. "Maybe. It's lucky that we found them here, wouldn't you say?"

"Lucky," he agreed, "or just a little of that Christmas magic."

And Specs just chuckled to himself, a sly little smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He said nothing else, and neither did Rags, but just then there was nothing more to be said. And if there was? His tiny half-smile said it all.

With Rags around, Rags and her ghost stories and the magic, he could lose his glasses any time.

* * *

**End Note**: I wrote this for Rags for the NML Secret Santa :) She requested a one-shot about Specs and, I have to admit, this is the first time I think I ever wrote anything about Specs at all. It was certainly a challenge, and I hope you guys enjoyed it. Especially you, Rags! Merry Christmas!

It didn't start out to be a Christmas fic but, well, there's a little bit of Christmas everywhere this time of year ;) I guess it just snuck in, but the research I did on _the Christmas Carol_ was fascinating! God Bless Us, Every One!

-_- stress, 12.22.10_


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